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Poem

It snowed last night, first fall of the year.
Taking out the trash,
there I am, dozing in a garden swing set
deep within July.

Mother of pearl eyes
above the clouds…it could be another year.
July in a London park
lying next to your soft brown hair
wisps of humid gentleness in a public place.
Snow falls onto my eyelids.

The trash is from Madrid
there are straw birds and the ruins
of several cathedrals in it.
It should be heavier
but the Iberian condors add a weightlessness
to all things too heavy to bear
across a backyard asphalt.
The chill bones on the swing set rattle,
icicles drip from blue eye sockets.

You are singing in the kitchen again,
coral lips savoring what you have yet to cook.
A skein of geese are crossing over
a heaped pile of clouds and frozen spires.
Reclining shorts and a T
rustle in a summer breeze, then freeze.

Just taking out something
to send it away
takes many years of scratch
and scrabble,
when you get there
it could be the time or the season
discarding your lost days
or you may have miscalculated
the accumulation
that gathers around the beginning of December
when the snow comes early.

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